Edwin was startled to realise the passage of time. But he said nothing. Partly he wanted to read in peace, and partly he did not want to admit his mistake. Bit by bit he was assuming the historic privileges of the English master of the house. He had the illusion that if only he could maintain a silence sufficiently august his error of fact and of manner would cease to be an error.
“Yes; she must be fifty-nine,” Maggie resumed placidly.
“I don’t care if she’s a hundred and fifty-nine!” snapped Edwin. “Any more coffee? Hot, that is.”
Without moving his gaze from the paper, he pushed his cup a little way across the table.
Maggie took it, her chin slightly lifting, and her cheeks showing a touch of red.
“I hope you didn’t forget to order the inkstand, after all,” she said stiffly. “It’s not been sent up yet, and I want to take it down to auntie’s myself this morning. You know what a lot she thinks of such things!”
It had been arranged that Auntie Hamps should receive that year a cut-glass double inkstand from her nephew and niece. The shop occasionally dealt in such articles. Edwin had not willingly assented to the choice. He considered that a cut-glass double inkstand was a vicious concession to Mrs Hamps’s very vulgar taste in knick-knacks, and, moreover, he always now discouraged retail trade at the shop. But still, he had assented, out of indolence.
“Well, it won’t come till to-morrow,” he said.
“But, Edwin, how’s that?”
“How’s that? Well, if you want to know, I didn’t order it till yesterday. I can’t think of everything.”